


The Denial

by Tub



Series: New Kyla [3]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Original Work
Genre: Angst, Blood, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Rejection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 15:21:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17727740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tub/pseuds/Tub
Summary: When Staldar nearly loses his life, Yorsashi decides that he can't go on leaving things left unsaid. Staldar panics.





	The Denial

Staldar does not spend time pondering on things that cannot be.

 

Staldar is a soldier. This will never change. Staldar is a servant of Kyla. This will never change.

 

Staldar cannot love.

 

Staldar, aside from finding amorous pursuits distasteful at best, a waste of time and energy at worst, also does not see himself as an entity that could ignite and be host to feelings of passion. He himself feels little to no desire towards anyone, and he is certain that no one could feel desire for him (and not come to regret it). From his icy, draconic appearance, all sharp, uninviting scales and spikes and claws, to imposing stature, towering well above most around him. No soft lips to kiss as the humans, elves, halflings, and dwarves he'd seen share. No small, gentle hands to hold. His scaly, leathery skin as hospitable as hewn stone. Even among other dragonborn, he knows he cannot compare to some, who are born with beautiful, glittering hues. Staldar is not beautiful.

 

And he is cold, both inside and out.

 

Love is for beautiful people. Love is for warm people.

 

So Staldar is certainly surprised to learn of Yorsashi’s pining.

…

_ “Do you know why a stab wound, no matter how small, can be so deadly, Drachenhearth?” _

 

_ “... No.” _

 

_ “Do you know what a stab wound  _ feels _ like, Drachenhearth?” _

 

_ “... No.” _

 

_ “Most of the time, nothing. A punch, maybe. But most will not realize they have been stabbed until it is too late. That is why it is so deadly.” _

 

_ “... I see.” _

 

It isn’t until many years later that Staldar does in fact see.

 

In the heat of battle, when your focus narrows, and all there is is kill or be killed, mistakes are made. You can only hope that the ones you make won’t be fatal. Staldar miscalculates, and one foe is suddenly two, and he’s flanked before he can correct the matter. He doesn’t see the dagger, only a swift movement and the feeling of impact, some pain across his ribs, but nothing he’s never felt before. In a fit of frustration and a last bid to intimidate his assailants, he roars, lunging. It’s not his preferred tactic, but he’s tired, hurting, a spike of adrenaline is making his heart thunder, his ears ring, and he wants this to be over.

 

And then it is, blood dripping in rivulets along Filkiati’s edge. He blinks. He’s more tired than he thought.

 

“Oh, Gods. Oh my Gods, Staldar, a knife-- you’ve got a--,” Yorsashi’s voice warns, and he feels around his side, confused. Ah. He feels the hilt, flush to his armor, blade clearly stuck as far as it could go. And warmth on his hand. His entire side is very warm.

 

He turns to reply, but the world loses color and sound, and the ground rushes up at him, hitting him hard. He tries to speak again, but instead of words, it’s blood, metallic on his tongue except the taste quickly turns to ash.

 

He’s losing consciousness, he knows this. He’s dying. He knows this too. He can’t find it in himself to be scared. He just wishes he could  _ say _ something. The last thing he sees and hears is a blur of radiant green, asking him to hold on.

 

He would, if he could.

* * *

He’s surprised when he reawakens in the infirmary.

 

Coming to, he feels some healing magic had done its best, but a deep, life threatening wound would still need time. He’s too fatigued to keep up with the healers’ babbling, but catches their gist. “And, with a punctured lung, blood could fill-- why you were bleeding out so quickly, it couldn’t clot-- blood may thin with age, so--,” Staldar tunes out the rest. He’s so tired still.

 

Yorsashi, for the few days Staldar is bedridden, cooped up in his quarters, is loathe to leave his side. He brings him his meals, important documents, or simply sits and and talks, or quietly waits until Staldar falls asleep or dismisses him. Staldar is grateful for his presence, but never knows how to react to his hovering, his constant doting.

 

The moment he is well enough to be upright and move about freely, he insists on returning to his usual routines, much to the other Fangs’ chagrin. He ignores their protests; his fatigue is rapidly replaced by restlessness, and he needs to move. So, he trains at daybreak like he does every morning, when no one else occupies the drilling space. His first few movements are carried out smoothly, Filkiati cutting through the air silently. Good.

 

He moves into the next set fluidly, slashing at the air. Inhale, step, swing, exhale, return. His mind always feels clearer during these exercises, focused on the present. It’s simple rhythm, repetition. Inhale, step, swing, exhale, return. Filkiati is less like a weapon or tool, separate from him-- it’s an extension of him, his body accustomed to its shape, its weight.

 

So when pain lances up his side in the middle of a swing, he’s taken completely by surprise. It is like being stabbed all over again, and he flinches, dropping Filkiati to the ground with a ringing clatter.

 

“ _ Hrk-- Augh--!”  _ Staldar falls to his knees, armor clanking against the stones, clutching the phantom wound, trying to control his breathing. The spasms keep coming in pulses, and he trembles with the force of them, teeth grit against the agony that washes over him, searing and electric.

 

“Staldar?  _ Staldar!”  _ He hears Yorsashi’s cry out from across the yard, hears his footfalls as he rushes over. Staldar can't bring himself to look, can't move at all, ready to simply collapse on himself, curl into a ball and just wait for the pain to pass. “Staldar, what happened?” Yorsashi croches by him, hands hovering, fluttering about, afraid to touch. Staldar manages a shake of his head, choking out his words.

 

“Just… phantom pains… Not--not serious _ ssss--! _ ” A particularly bad cramp pulls a hiss from him, tensing at the spasm. Yorsashi’s fear morphs into something unreadable, expression turning sour. He  _ tsk _ s at him, reaching over to pick up Filkiati, helping sheath it back into its scabbard. He then leans down, taking the arm on Staldar’s uninjured side and wrapping it around his own shoulder, assisting Staldar to his feet.

 

“You stubborn old… I knew you would be out here, and I  _ knew-- _ ,” He begins berating Staldar, but stops when Staldar can’t even form a reply, only taking shallow gasps, eyes clouded with pain. He sighs and pulls Staldar to his feet, taking the larger dragonborn’s weight readily.  _ ‘He’s always so much stronger than he looks _ .’ Together, they manage to trudge back to their lodgings unnoticed.

 

Yorsashi guides Staldar back to his quarters and lays him out on the bed, frame creaking threateningly under his and his armor’s combined weight. Staldar can’t help but heave a sigh of relief as a little of the pain dissipates. Yorsashi closes the door quietly behind them, then turns to watch Staldar’s prone form for a moment.

 

“Let’s get you out of all this armor.” Staldar can't find the energy to protest as Yorsashi sits on the side of the bed, carefully pulling apart the giant steel plates. Staldar shakily assists with still trembling limbs, shifting as each piece is removed, chain and all, until he's down to his smallclothes. He finally lays back and breathes easy, though he holds his aching side. Yorsashi continues to watch him, taking in his little winces, and conflict flits across his features before seemingly coming to a decision. He begins rifling through Staldar's half-barren chest of drawers. “Where is that oil I gave you?”

 

“Ah, bottom drawer,” Staldar grunts. “This doesn't feel like an opportune time for scale polishing, Yorsashi.” Yorsashi ignores him, retrieving the bottle of amber liquid.

 

“Hush. You're still in pain and it seems to want to linger. I suspect muscle or maybe nerve damage.” He crosses back over to the bed, turning the bottle over in his hands. “If you roll over, I can try to get those muscles to relax.”

 

Staldar doesn’t understand why Yorsashi is going to such lengths for him, not when anyone else would simply send him to a healer, or leave him to deal with it on his own. His job comes with some pain, he’s accepted that his role means toughing it out sometimes. He’s not in danger, not anymore, he simply hurts. This isn’t Yorsashi’s problem.

 

He almost says as much when that white-hot pain flares briefly, stealing his thoughts away. He sighs and turns over,  making his side accessible. He ignores the prickle of vulnerability he feels, watching Yorsashi from the corner of his eye. It’s only slightly awkward as Yorsashi kneels on the edge of the bed, mattress dipping from his weight. He slowly pulls at the hem of Staldar’s shirt, exposing scales and scar tissue.

 

The scar, under different circumstances, would have been cleaner, already faded from potions and healing, but as it turns out, swinging a greatsword while a dagger is stuck in him had not done him any favors. The scar is messy, ragged and raised. It doesn’t hide between his pale scales, isn’t camouflaged like some of his nicks and cuts.

 

Staldar has avoided looking at it for too long, but now Yorsashi stares, expression closed, unreadable. After a moment he uncorks the bottle, dripping a little of the oil onto his fingers. He starts to knead, gently, then more firmly.

 

Staldar can't hide his flinch, but does hide his grimace behind his raised arm. The mix of sensations is nearly overwhelming-- electrifying pain, Yorsashi’s tender touches, his warmth, the scents. He fears he may die between the ache in his side and the ache in his chest. He convinces himself that his elevated heart rate is simply a side effect of the pain.

 

Eventually, Yorsashi’s fingers find less and less resistance, the muscle relaxing in increments, and Staldar’s breathing slows, able to take deeper, longer breaths without pain. As he relaxes, Staldar realizes how tightly he had been gripping this pillow under his head, and lowers his arm slightly.

 

“It’s stopped hurting,” he murmurs hoarsely. Yorsashi simply hums in return, squeezing turning gentle, soothing his hand over the rough scar, from rib to hip. Staldar swallows, shifting away from Yorsashi, clearing his throat.

 

“You, er, needn’t continue, the pain has passed. But thank you,” Staldar mumbles, turning his head to avoid Yorsashi’s gaze. He suddenly feels dizzy, Yorsashi’s touch linger a little too long, his own dismissals too weak to his own ears.

 

“Do you want me to stop?” Yorsashi’s question makes Staldar blink, freezing in place.

 

“You’ve done more than enough, you don’t have to--”

 

“No!” Yorsashi interjects with surprising fervor, effectively cutting Staldar off. His hand is firm, not allowing Staldar to shift away. “If you  _ want _ me to stop, say it. Say the words ‘Yorsashi, I want you to stop.’” Despite his size, his strength, he feels pinned by Yorsashi, heart crushed under the weight of his hand, his eyes, his words.

 

“Just drop this, Yorsashi, please.” He pulls against Yorsashi, moving to shove his hand away.

 

Yorsashi actually growls at this, pulling Staldar so that he rolls onto his back once more, throwing a leg across his waist.

 

“No! I mean it, Staldar, just tell me what  _ you want _ ! If you don’t want this, just say so!” Staldar just lays, agog, trying to form any response, muster any will to push Yorsashi away like he knows he must, but it’s not there. And then Yorsashi leans down, laying his body across Staldar’s, hands drifting down his chest, his sides, nuzzling along Staldar’s jaw, sighing. “Tell me if you don’t want me,” he whispers plaintively. Staldar’s own hands had gravitated to Yorsashi’s hips, though he couldn’t say for certain whether it was to pry Yorsashi off or hold him closer. Yorsashi’s hands continue to explore, tracing his shape, meandering lower and lower. Over his clothes becomes under, and Staldar chokes, a plume of cold steam escaping his nose, though he feels warm, far too warm. Yorsashi very nearly draws a whimper from him as one hand slips into his breeches, caressing that sensitive area between his belly and his… His skin feels tight, too tight for his body suddenly, blood engulfed in searing flame. It’s a horrid, exhilarating feeling, nerve endings long dormant waking under Yorsashi’s touch. He craves more, more of this, more of  _ Yorsashi _ \--

 

“ _ Tell me what you want, _ ” he breathes, warm breath wrapping around Staldar’s throat.

 

Staldar lurches, sitting up with a snap, and deftly rolls them both over, hovering over Yorsashi now, framing his smaller figure. He breathes hard for a moment, collecting himself, searching Yorsashi’s face for… something. Something to tell him that this isn’t sincere, that he’s not… But Yorsashi just stares resolutely back at him, unwavering, intense. Staldar closes his eyes and exhales, a long, shaky breath.

 

“We can’t--”

 

“Bullshit!”

 

“ _ I _ can’t--”

 

“I’m sick of this, Staldar, us dancing around each other, scared to rock the godsdamned boat. What is holding us back?”

 

“I nearly  _ died _ , Yorsashi. I made a simple mistake, an avoidable one, a costly one. What will you do when the blade reaches a little deeper, when I don’t have anymore blood to bleed--”

 

“ _ Don’t _ ,” Yorsashi snaps, teeth bared, but eyes wide and frightened. “Don’t talk like that. That’s why I--I--,” his voice breaks. “I know I almost lost you, but I almost lost you without ever-- ever having…” As Yorsashi trails off, fighting the moisture that tries to gather in his eyes, Staldar sighs.

 

“Stop this, Yorsashi. I’m the leader of this group. Us,  _ this,  _ compromises us all. I’ve been accused of showing you preference from the start, and they’re right. I’ve been overly familiar with you. If something happens to either of us, to  _ you _ , I--,” Staldar grits his teeth and looks away. If even the thought is too much for him… “You ask what I want, but I can’t  _ have _ wants. I can’t have  _ preferences _ or  _ vulnerabilities _ . I have to think of us all, not just what I want. If I let-- if I gave in and-- and then you…” Staldar’s throat restricts, and all the strength in his arms seems to drain, starting to shake under his own weight. With a shuddering breath, he leans forward, laying his head against Yorsashi’s chest. He hears his heartbeat, reminded of some small creature, a frantic, frightened rhythm thumping beneath him. When he speaks, his voice is rough and hoarse with emotion.  “I am weak, but I  _ can’t _ be. The feelings I have mean I am weak, so I fight all the harder. I need you to understand this.”

 

“We all fight harder because of you, Staldar,” Yorsashi says quietly, and Staldar startles when he feels one of Yorsashi’s hands caress the side of his face. “We’re  _ stronger _ together. We all make each other strong. So--”

 

“ _ Please _ stop--”

 

“No, why won’t you--”

 

“ _ Yorsashi _ \--!”

 

“Why won’t you even--!” But Staldar’s head snaps up with a growl.

 

“And what happens if you die? I break down, the mission fails? I put my team at risk? There’s no room in our work for grief. If I die, will you be able to hold it together, keep control, ensure that the mission is successful?”

 

“You can’t make decisions based on such broad hypotheticals,” Yorsashi says weakly, eyes downcast. “You don’t know that those things will even happen.”

 

“What in the nine hells do you think my job  _ is _ ?!” Staldar’s patience runs out, and he nearly shouts down at Yorsashi, who, to his credit, manages not to flinch or wince. “It’s my responsibility to consider every possibility, weigh every option, decide what's best for all of us. I must calculate the risks, then minimize them, and seek out the clearest path for success.” His frustration dims, and he deflates a bit. “I… We can't. I'm sorry.”

 

Yorsashi's face grows thunderous, once he's done, shocking Staldar. Yorsashi leans up on his elbows, nearly nose to nose with Staldar, who shrinks away.

 

“Oh, how wonderful it must be, being so all-knowing and clever that you can just decide what's best for all of us all on your own! What vertigo you must suffer, looking down on us from such towering height.” Yorsashi's tone is scathing and Staldar’s expression looks thoroughly abashed. “Do you hear yourself, how patronizing you sound?”

 

“That's not… I didn't mean it that way.” The tremble in Staldar's voice extinguishes all the fury in Yorsashi, and he sighs, leaning up to bump his nose against Staldar's, though he shies away at the touch.

 

“I know. I know… I just wish you wouldn't give up before giving it a chance. You won't even  _ try _ ?” He reaches up to brush his fingers across Staldar's face again, but he pulls away entirely. He sits on the edge of the mattress, head in his hands, covering his eyes.

 

“You ask too much of me,” he whispers, barely keeping the true depth of the sorrow he feels out of his voice. His wound feels like child's play compared to this.

 

Yorsashi crawls over to him, reaching out slowly, gently. One hand drifts up his back, following the line of his spine over soft linen, snaking around his broad shoulder and back down, toying with the neckline. Yorsashi’s other hand touches his side while his nose brushes the back of Staldar’s neck. Staldar tenses.

 

“I’m only asking that you stop denying yourself… You would carve away at yourself, sever your own heart for lofty ideals like  _ duty _ ,” Yorsashi mumbles against his scales.

 

This hurts.

 

Staldar shakes Yorsashi’s hold, standing up stiffly, mechanical. He can’t look at Yorsashi.

 

This hurts.

 

“Stand down, Major Saldonas.” It doesn’t sound like a command, it sounds like a plea, whispered, broken, but there’s no mistaking it for what it is. Yorsashi freezes, and Staldar  _ feels _ it.

 

“You… You would-- to pull rank on me now… I can’t believe this, I can’t believe you--!” Yorsashi’s voice rises as realization dawns on him, anger and hurt and betrayal flaring. His voice shakes. Staldar hardens himself against it, baring his teeth.

 

“ _ Yes _ . And I believe it to be in your best interest to obey.”

 

“... And if I don’t?”

 

“Then you force my hand. Do not make me take action against you, Yorsashi.” His control slips for a moment, entire throat and chest restricting, tight and excruciating. “I beg you,” he adds pitifully.

 

There is a pregnant pause, the quiet of morning filling the space.

 

“Yes, sir,” finally murmurs, voice drained of all emotion.

 

“... You are dismissed.”

 

“Yes, sir.” A few more seconds of quiet tick by, strained, tense, but Staldar hears the shuffle of Yorsashi pulling himself out of his bed, and then his footsteps retreating towards the door. He hesitates at the door, and Staldar hears a shuddering inhale. “You… can be so cold… and so selfish, sometimes…” And then he hears the door open and shut again, surprisingly gentle, but the soft click of the latch may as well have been the angry slam he half-expected.

 

Alone in the silence, Staldar feels like a sealed bottle full of something bubbling, volatile, and the glass is ready to explode under the pressure. He tries to hold it in, but it hurts in a way he doesn’t know how to bear. He roars. Guttural, furious, grieving, an animal sound that makes his throat feel like it’s been shredded to bits. Before him, a simple, almost bare shelf stands, and before he can give it another thought, he swipes, claws spread wide, and it cracks and splinters, falling apart as it hits the floor with a loud crash.

 

Staldar pants, shaking, and heaving breaths turn into sobs, sobs that start small, then wrack his entire body. For the first time in decades, Staldar cries.  _ ‘Throwing a tantrum, like a hatchling. Shameful. _ ’ He’s overcome by the flood of tears, flowing in rivulets down his muzzle, creating a small puddle at his feet.  _ ‘Stop this. This is pointless. Act like an adult. Like a soldier.’ _

 

It’s not quite abrupt, it takes a moment to regain control of his breathing, pull everything back into himself. Fists clenched, he breathes in. Holds. Releases. He turns, not bothering to clean up the mess on the ground. He doesn’t wipe his face. He simply lays back down, settling back on the bed, and stares at the ceiling. He counts breaths. Inhale. Hold. Release.

 

_ ‘The boy didn’t die until he let the fox out.’ _

 

He counts. He counts until he reaches nine-hundred-and-seventy-eight, and then he doesn’t feel like counting anymore. He sits up.

 

‘ _ He thinks I’m cold. Selfish. It’s better this way. It was a mistake to let him believe otherwise. I let him get too attached.’ _

 

He sits up, passing a hand over his tired eyes.

 

‘ _ I’m too attached.’ _

 

He hears the rest of his team moving about outside, speaking to one another, and he realizes more time has passed than he initially realized. It’s time to get moving. There is still work to be done today.

 

He stands and solemnly picks up the broken mess on the floor.


End file.
